Broken
by Dr. Rex Greylin
Summary: The deepest wounds aren't the ones we get from other people hurting us, they are the wounds we give ourselves when we hurt other people – even when the hurt was unintentional.


**Disclaimer: **"Kim Possible" and all associated characters and events are (c) Disney Corp. and are used without permission. (Ya know, the usual schtick. *grins*)

I'd like to give a shout out to Seriadne for being the greatest sounding board I've had in... well... ever. You should go check her stuff out. Just remember: Don't feed the plot bunnies. They're worse than Tribbles that way.

Inspired by "Broken" by Seether.

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**Broken**

By: Dr. Rex Greylin

Laughter. That's what catches my ear as I enter the room. Sounds like Hope and Jess. They're probably trashing Larry again. It's nice. It's only third period but the kids are already driving me nuts and it's just what I needed. Laughter.

But it's not like yours. I always loved yours. I never told you, but I did. Yours was clear. Melodic. The times I heard it I was amazed. It never failed to bring a smile to people's faces, even mine – despite how I tried to hide it at first. It still surprises me, seeing how I was back then all cynicism and spite. It helped heal me. _You_ helped heal me. You helped settle the storm seething within that almost consumed me. Your laughter lifted me from the depths I had sunk into and remade me.

And now I'll never hear it again.

That realization hits me like a punch to the gut, just like it does every time. That tinkling laugh that always cheered me up will never again reach my ears. My mood sinks like a stone as I remember how you were. I reach into a pocket in my blouse and withdraw the black-and-white photo of us taken so long ago. The one I almost burned in a fit of bitter loneliness and despondent stupidity. I gaze longingly at it and remember simpler times, happier times

So lost in our past I missed what Bill said at first. He recognized you in the picture. Surprised that I knew you he asked how. I told him about how we once worked together and how, unknowingly, you helped me through a very bad part of my life. How you became my best, and possibly only, friend. He saw my face light up slightly and the faint wistful smile made him make some half joking remark about how it sounded like I loved you. That caught me by surprise. I hadn't loved anyone in a really long time. Hell, there were times I wasn't even sure I loved my family and you know how they are.

But I thought about it. I realized he was right. In my own skewed way, I did. I loved the way you were so optimistic about everything; how nothing ever really got you down. You saw the good in everyone, including me. Your blind faith in humanity made me have faith in myself. Faith enough to get back into teaching, a dream I had given up on so long ago.

But as my thoughts are wont to when they drift to you, I turned melancholy. Bill caught my shift in mood and asked what happened. I told him about the accident and how you left after. How I blamed myself and just _knew_ you did too. He disagreed. Said we should talk about it, but it won't work. I know. You haven't spoken to me in the five years since, no matter how much I say to you. I fear you never will. Not again.

Not that I can blame you. I suppose if Dietrich had built that thing better it wouldn't have gone up like it did but I was the one that "pulled the trigger." If I hadn't, you'd still be here, chatting and gossiping with me like you used to. Instead you're... there.

I feel so lost without you that some days I'm not even sure how I make it. There are some days that are crystal clear, others pass in a fugue. My world has become dimmer, greyer, since then. I wish I could raise you up on that pedestal you deserve to be on and just let all this pain and regret be washed away by your light; a light that has been taken from this world all too soon.

I went to see you today, just like I do every second Saturday. Like clockwork. Ran into your parents there. We talked and they spoke about forgiveness, of letting go. They told me how you knew it was an accident and had forgiven me long ago. That I had to forgive _myself_ and move on. I wish I could.

I found myself standing there looking at where you sit, too terrified and guilt ridden to move forward or retreat, and remembering what happened. I wasn't even supposed to be there. You had it covered and could've done it in your sleep, but I insisted. I was bored. ("Bored." It's certainly been a god damn roller coaster since, hasn't it?) I remembered the fight; covering you so you could disable that laser. My shock at seeing the blast I fired miss that Teutonic Twit and fly towards it. The panic at the explosion it caused that sent you flying across the room. The utter despair at seeing your broken body slumped on the floor. And the heartache every waking hour since.

Somehow I scraped together the courage to approach you. I always do – my conscience wouldn't ever allow otherwise. That short path twists the knife in my heart with every step but I can never seem to keep from walking it. Every time I come to see you I pray it assuages my guilt. It doesn't. It never does. And yet, I continue to make the journey. And you continue to sit there, oblivious.

As I approach I draw a deep breath to steady my nerves and kneel to talk to you. I tell you about my day; how the kids piss me off and the administrators drive me absolutely insane. I tell you about how midterms were hell and that, no matter how crazy things are at school, it's infinitely better than working for Drew. I talk about Steve still being after me even after all these years. I tell you about the last time I saw your – well, I guess after all this time they're "our " – friends and how they're doing. I mention how Wade and Joss just celebrated their first Christmas together and I smirk when I tell you how it still surprises me they started dating after she moved here from Montana. I talk about a lot of things, the whole time hoping I somehow keep the pain and apprehension from showing.

I'll bet that's a shock, isn't it? When we met all those years ago, would you have believed for a second that "The Great Shego" would be afraid to talk to _anyone?_ To open up and pour out her feelings like this? To even _consider_ showing this kind of "weakness?" Admitting being this "soft?"

But I'm not that woman anymore. That woman died in that explosion that took you away. Now I'm just Bethany Gosslyn, high school English teacher. I'm no longer the Master Thief that comes home to the multi-million dollar penthouse and enjoys the "finer things." Now I come home to my small, one-bedroom apartment and then, more often than I want to admit, crawl into a bottle of gin and cry myself to sleep over what I've done.

As we "talk," I reflect on all the things I miss about you. I miss the brawls, the banter. I miss razzing each other after a date and how you always had so much more ammunition on me with the seeming revolving door of guys I had. The ones that never lasted more than a couple dates before I found out they only were interested in me for "bragging rights."

I miss your smiles. That dreamy thing that would grace your lips when you thought of Ron. I miss how seeing it would always make me wonder if I'd ever find someone that would make me feel the same. That crooked one that crept up when you got in a good zing and how frustrated I got when it showed because I knew I had nothing.

I miss your eyes. I miss the glint in them when you focused on something. The maddening twinkle that shined when our now playful jibes got going. I miss the joy at life they always held, no matter how bad you were feeling and the compassion in them always made me feel as if all was right in the world.

I miss hanging out with you. The late nights sharing girl talk and pints of ice cream. The mall crawls where we'd spend hours trying to find just the right outfit for something. The way we'd drive each other insane with our pet peeves – like how you'd constantly click your pen while you were concentrating on your homework or how I'd always use up all the hot water when I took a shower – and prove that friends really shouldn't be roommates. Hell, I even miss getting kicked out of the house when you wanted some "Ronshine." I miss...

I miss _you,_ Kim.

I want to hear your voice. I want to hear you yell at me for eating that pizza you were saving for lunch. I want to hear you laugh at Ron's dumb jokes. I want to hear you singing in the shower that you were so embarrassed about when I found out. I want to hear you cuss and swear at that cabinet that never stayed closed that you always cracked your head on. I want to hear... I want...

I just want to hear your voice once more. Just once more! I want to hear you say you forgive me! To hear you curse me! Condemn me! Hit me! Hug me! SOMETHING! _ANYTHING! __PLEASE!_

But it'll never happen. The voice I loved hearing is silent. Your eyes, once so expressive, are vacant and stare unblinking out the window the nurses sit you in front of. That woman, so full of life, that saved me from myself, now trapped in a living death. You've gone away and, no matter how hard I try, you won't feel me. Not here. Not anymore.

And my heart shatters once again...

_~fin~_

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A/N: I've had this one simmering for a while. It took my Grandfather succumbing to his dementia just before Thanksgiving to wrench it out. It's said you should write what you know. Right now, I know I miss you, Grampa. Rest in peace, you old fart.


End file.
